


Black Vanilla

by LigeiaMaloy



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Friends With Benefits, M/M, Sexual Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-29
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-25 00:19:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/946427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LigeiaMaloy/pseuds/LigeiaMaloy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone to their own fashion. So Scout and Demoman both have their own preferrences when they want to treat themselves. But so delicious sickly sweet ice cream might be to Scout - there lies an irresistible temptation in the gentle scent of expensive tobacco. Fortunately for both of them, Scout has his own scheme how to have a taste, while sharing his own with Demoman.</p><p>Who teases who? The odds are high even they cannot answer that question.</p><p>--------------</p><p>Just a quick ficlet. I have a soft spot for Demoman/Scout and I'm sad over the lack of fanart und fanfiction. Expecially fanfics with a Demoman who isn't a walking barrel of scrumpy 24/7.<br/>This was a quick idea that came into my mind when I finally found a kiosk that sells my favorite brand of small cigars - "Black Vanilla".</p><p>Enjoy a tiny, harmless, light hearted story and remember, kids: smoking is bad, and neither Demoman nor Ligeia are good role models!<br/>-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Vanilla

**Black Vanilla**

“Geez! Yar freaking sick, man!”

 

Scout didn't wait for the Medic's retort and smashed the door to the examination room shut. Walking down the corridor and rubbing his upper arm where a tiny, red dot hinted at the injection site of a syringe, Scout cursed Medic and himself. He should have known it. He should have known it would turn out to be a mistake to answer a routine question like “How are you?” with the truth.

 

Bragging to the Medic was never a good idea, even if it was about how bravely Scout endured a sore throat that didn't bother him at all. Scout had noticed he had made a mistake when the Medic's eyes flashed up with glee.

 

Still flinching and pulling faces, Scout tried to get rid of the sharp taste on his tongue. All his protests had been in vain. The doctor insisted that a sore throat could turn into a serious matter, and he surely hadn't been impressed when Scout declared him to be a sick, sadistic fuck for supervising the reluctant Scout gargling with the most disgusting solution for ten full minutes.

 

“Don't be a baby, it's just medicine. And don't eat or drink anything for the rest of the evening.” Mimicking the Medic's voice and his concluding words, Scout opened the door to the recreation room. For once, he didn't meet any of the other team members here, a fact he regretted. His collection of words and titles he thought perfect to describe the Medic only waited to be launched, but there was no fun in ranting to his heart's content without anybody to listen to him.

 

It was still early in the evening, and the others were apparently still busy with putting their quarters in order. Scout understood that only too well. Although they spent most of the year in this base, returning after being deployed to another battlefield for a few weeks always felt weird. As if they needed to reclaim their deserted rooms from the same unknown, invisible force that usually inhabited ghost towns.

 

However, in Scout's eyes, the only real, throat-throttling horror were the check ups their Medic insisted on whenever they arrived or returned to a base. He couldn't remember one single appointment with the doctor that hadn't ended with him being forced to swallow disgusting medicine or being pestered with needles. Of course, it all was for his own good, as the Medic usually reassured him with a grin that wasn't reassuring at all. Scout gave a snort.

 

“Don't eat or drink anything, my ass. Fuck ya, ya damn sadist!” He stomped across the room to the kitchen unit and tore the fridge open. With a scowl he inspected the food while he blamed vegetables, meat and small boxes with unknown contents alike, for all the annoying things that had ever happened to him.

 

“Too healthy. Sucks raw. Hate that. What's this... Yuck! How long has this been in here?” Quickly, he closed the lid of a food container again and shoved it back into the fridge, barely daring to even look at inside again.

 

“Oh, hello, were ya waiting for me?” Scout's face lit up and a smile brightened his face when he opened the freezer.

 

“Your sweet yet cool charm never fails to seduce me, ya know.” The harsh words had vanished from his mind. Whistling in joy to himself, he took out a rectangular box and a bowl from the cupboard.

He helped himself with a large portion of ice cream, deciding he deserved a generous treat more than anybody else on this planet, after what he had endured.

 

Feeling a hint of triumph over the Medic at the prospect of defying his order and vanquishing the bile taste of the medicine from his tongue, he took a seat at the empty table.

 

He had just put the spoon into his mouth for the first time when the door opened.

 

“Bloody hell, thought me finds some peace here, instead it's the mutt!”

 

Scout shrugged. Savoring the flavor of melting chocolate and vanilla soothing his tongue, he thought answering the Demoman's greeting by raising one very particular finger was more than enough.

 

From the corner of his eye, Scout watched him.

 

His team-mate was in a good mood, humming and whistling, like the Scout had done before, while he shoved a small table next to one of the arm chairs. The old, comfortable thing had already been outdated 20 years ago; the leather was worn and brittle in many places. The burgundy color had faded from the seat surface and the arm rests; the once shiny brass of the decorative studs would still look dull even if somebody found the time and leisure to thoroughly polish them.

 

Scout hadn't noticed the bag Demoman had brought with him until the Scotsman opened it. The solemn smile on the man's face and his slow movements made Scout wonder if he was witnessing a weird ceremony when Demo reached into it.

 

However, when Scout saw the first item produced from the ominous bag, he rolled his eyes. Of course, nothing but a bottle of rum or whiskey or whatever it might have been; from his position, Scout couldn't see the label.

Asking himself what else in hell he had expected, Scout focused on the bowl in front of him.

 

Steadily eating the small mountain of white and dark ice away, he listened how liquid was poured into a glass, soon followed by a comfortable sigh when the Demoman let himself fall onto his favorite chair, the leather moaning in protest under his weight.

 

Neither the Scout nor the Demoman said a word. None of the other team members were close. Only once they heard steps echoing from the corridor. Light and swift tapping over the wooden floor as they rushed past the closed door, probably belonging to their Spy.

 

Yet, even without two men not speaking, there was no room for silence.

 

Demoman breathed in deeply as he sniffed at his glass, the scent promising the smooth and smoky flavor that spread in his mouth only a moment later. He appreciated the fine texture with a pleased growl and let a second sip follow the first.

 

Scout's gaze lost itself in the distance. Without glancing to the side, the Demoman was nothing but a moving scheme to his right, a diffuse shadow. His mind forgot about the remaining half of his treat while the clicking sound from the spoon tapped against his teeth accompanied the clicks and clatters of his aimless thoughts.

 

His silent companion rummaged through his bag, as the rustling sound would have told Scout, if he had listened.

 

Another click spoke up and went silent again. A moment later, an intense fragrance lured the Scout back to earth. Soft and gentle, it reminded him of the warm, black tea with milk his mother loved to drink on crisp days in fall; a part of it smelled not unlike the unwatched, white ice cream that was slowly starting to melt. Compared to the cigarettes Spy or Soldier preferred, the smoke bit only very gently as it filled his nose.

 

Feeling taunted by the mild, comforting scent, he stopped playing with the spoon as his diffuse thoughts began to fall into place.

 

The chair's metallic legs screeched over the floor when Scout and chair abruptly turned towards the Demoman.

 

“Geez, ya smell like a freaking grandpa! What the hell are those?!” An reproachful spoon was pointed at the source of Scout's irritation, but remained unnoticed.

 

The Demoman relaxed in his chair, leaning comfortably against the worn bolster and his legs stretched. His good eye was closed, and with a light smile, he inhaled another whirl of smoke raising from the cigar he was holding.

The fingers of his other hand played with an almost empty whiskey tumbler, letting gentle waves of liquid amber brandish up and down the walls of the glass.

 

“Guess a low-bred mutt's nose ain't fine enough for a whiff of Black Vanilla. The afternoon delight of them gentlemen. Like me.” Demoman gave a chuckle and opened his eye in response to the flouting snort.

 

“Whaddye eatin'?” He took another puff of the cigar, letting the smoke slowly escape his lips.

 

“Ice cream. Vanilla and chocolate.” Withstanding the reflex to inhale the traces of smoke that engulfed him, Scout shrugged and turned his attention to the before mentioned dessert. The Scotsman was either satisfied with the answer, or took the Scout's shrug as a signal that the short conversation was over and close his eye once more, taking another sip from the glass.

 

“Gimme one!” The demand burst out of the Scout with such abruptness that the Demoman opened his eyes again while putting the tumbler on the table by the side of his chair.

He mustered the young man.

Scout sat straight up on his chair, one arm resting on the back of the chair, the other on the table, the fingertips impatiently drumming on the wooden surface. With a frown he glared at the Demoman, delivering an impertinent challenge to dare and deny the Scout's wish!

 

“Nay. Yer too young.” A twinkle stole into the Demoman's eye when the Scout's cheeks turned pink at the Scotsman's brusque tone.

 

“'Are ya kidding me? I'm 23!”

 

“Ye've spent 23 years on this planet, but yer mind's that of a child. Let me see. Are ye six? Or seven?” He laughed out cheerfully, winking at his younger team-mate. Then, his face changed – while the mockery didn't disappear from his eye, his smile softened as he gave a nod. This little challenge of his own didn't pass unnoticed by the Scout.

 

The frown was gone as quickly as it had appeared. Instead of an answer, Scout grinned back, slowly standing up, every move watched closely by the Demoman when Scout walked over to him.

 

“Six? Yeah, right. How 'bout my body? Still saying I'm a six years old?” Scout's grin widened and he bent forward, towards the Scotsman, while he climbed onto the man, comfortably nestling against the Demoman's lap as he straddled him. He stretched his upper body. Shoving up his shirt only a few inches, he allowed the older man a glimpse at his firm stomach.

 

With his other hand, Scout reached for the Demoman's hand holding the cigar, but the man wasn't distracted that easily. Swiftly, he dodged the Scout's attack for the cigar.

 

The force of his own sudden movement dragged Scout forward. He caught his balance by supporting himself on the Demoman's chest, leaving their faces only a few inches apart.

 

The scent of whiskey and vanilla flavored tobacco took hold of the Scout's senses at once.

 

“Yer body? Lemme see.” The placid growl changed into a chuckle at the gasp of surprise from the Scout. The Scotsman's free hand grabbed one of the young man's buttcheeks, squeezing it firmly.

 

“Guess me owes ye an apology. Of course yer body ain't that of a child.” His smile unaltered, but the words rolling deeply in the back of his throat, Demoman's hand wandered over the Scout's back, feeling for the muscles and spine and returned to the Scout's ass.

 

“Nay, not of a child. Mature. That of a 60 years old. Maybe 65.” He chuckled in amusement when the Scout sat up and glared at him, the young face again red and with that indignant scowl of his.

 

“When ya think ya funny, I gotta tell ya – sorry, not funny at all.” Lifting his chin, he let the words drop with as much dignity his voice could muster up.

 

“Yer right. I'm hilarious. Ow, ye don't have to hit me!” Demoman gave a snort when Scout playfully punched his chest.

 

“Gimme one of those freaking things, ya cheap dumbass!” In pretended anger, Scout hit him a second time.

 

“Buy yer own when yer old enough. Don't keep wasting yer breath, me ain't giving ye one.” He picked the glass up and guided it to his lips. The embers of the cigar smoldered away, still filling the air with a faint scent of burned leaves and vanilla.

 

Scout decided it was time to drop the act. Before the Demoman emptied his drink, Scout wrapped his hand around the glass, his pale, slim fingers covering the dark, strong ones for a moment. He took hold of the tumbler and gently put it back onto the table.

 

His grin widened and was answered by a taunting smile as he moved closer to the older man's face, this time on purpose.

 

“Ya should know by now that I always get what I want.” He let his tongue flick over his lips, mockingly avoiding to touch the Scotsman.

 

“What me knows is how to make ye want what me wants.”

 

Scout's lofty snort was cut off when the Demoman kissed him, finally allowing him to have a taste of smooth vanilla, its sweetness enhanced by the bitter tang of tobacco and whiskey.

The strong hand found the Scout's ass again, massaging the tensed muscles with lazy relish while the young man's tongue searched the Demoman's mouth for more of the alluring flavor.

 

After a few minutes of silent teasing, Scout sat up again, recovering his breath.

 

“Yer tongue's a lot sweeter tonight than yer temper. At least when yer not speaking.” Demoman gave the Scout's ass a playful slap, smiling at him when the young man licked over his own lips with a cocky grin.

 

“Yeah? Is that so?” Scout stretched his arms over his head, tensing and relaxing his wiry body under the Demoman's intense gaze. The whirl of the aromatic tobacco, whiskey, vanilla and a hint of chocolate made him forgot about the unpleasant concoction the Medic had pestered him with before. The hand groping his ass was warm and sure, the pressure he felt from the lap promising.

 

“And what flavor's my temper?” Scout asked, twisting his waist slightly, as if to get rid of the stiffness in his bones. His shirt shifted along with his position, showing more of his skin. He knew that the Scotsman's grin was the result of the sight he presented, and not by his question.

 

“Spicy,” was the prompt answer.

 

“Too spicy for you?” He chuckled, letting his fingers tap over the Demoman's body, searching for the hem of his shirt. Already he felt the warm skin under his fingertips. Another, a lot firmer slap on his ass made him give a start.

 

“Far too spicy. And now off with ye!” Demoman laughed at the Scout's puzzled expression. The question if the older man was serious was written all over the young face.

However, being the stubborn youth he was, Scout recovered quickly from the surprise and the usual cockiness returned to his features.

 

“What's wrong with ya? Are ya now blind on both eyes? Or are ya already too drunk to stand having a good taste of this?” His hands glided under his own shirt, invitingly wandering over his chest and abdomen.

 

“Some spices don't blend well.” Unimpressed, the Demoman seized him by the hip and shoved him down from his lap. The embers of the cigar had died away peacefully and unnoticed. With a sigh, he lit it again.

 

“Let a man have his smoke and another shot of fine whiskey before he has to go to his monthly check up.

 

Sit down and finish yer ice cream,” he added with a grin, chuckling at the sullen growl directed at him.

 

“Geez, you're hopeless.” His head held high, Scout returned reluctantly to his chair and frowned at the bowl in front of him. Vigorously, he stuffed a spoon filled with molten ice cream into his mouth.

 

“Say,” he began, the spoon still between his lips when the Demoman filled his glass a second time and emptied it, lacking the hedonistic tranquility from before. Now he resembled the chummy drinking buddy he was when he occasionally preferred a night with friends and booze over a reasonable amount of sleep before the next battle.

 

“Say, ya really think it's a smart move to smell like a bar when seeing the Medic?”

 

The Demoman poured himself a third drink and smirked.

 

“He's funny when he's mad. He's gonna raise them fancy eyebrows till they touch that cowlick of his. Then he revels in the prospect of examining me lungs and liver one day. Ain't easy not to laugh.” He gave a shrug.

 

“It amuses him, and me learns some new insults for childish, stupid lads. Might use some of them later,” the Scotsman added with a grin that made Scout shoot a glaring scowl at him.

 

“So that's were ya get them. Fucking great. I warn ya, keep that freak out of my bedroom!”

 

“Yer funny when yer mad, too. Blimey! Me better runs now. Enjoy yer sweets before ye turn sour.” He rose from his chair, hastening to shove the now half empty bottle and the cold cigar back into his bag.

 

“Oh, I dunno.” His arm propped up on the table, Scout's chin rested on his hand while he, plainly lacking in enthusiasm, picking at the creamy mess that had been left after the pile of ice cream had molten away.

 

“Maybe I feel more like something salty now.” A twitch of the corner of his mouth betrayed his display of a bad mood.

 

“If yer asking me for a treat ye have to be a good boy and wait until later.” Demoman's had already adopted a slurred drawl that did the amount of whiskey he drank more justice than it deserved. Scout hid a smirk; the Scotsman wasn't half as drunk as he planned to make the Medic believe.

 

“Pah. Now I'm your dog or what?” he said aloud.

 

“My bad mutt. Because a good, sweet tempered dog would never think of sneaking into me room and waiting there for me return as soon as me leaves.” Walking past the Scout, he ruffled the young man's short hair and patted the back of his head. Scout stabbed after the hand with his spoon, but missed his target.

 

“If ya don't fuck off the bad mutt's gonna bite ya instead of - “ Scout didn't finish the sentence. Instead, he grinned, slowly licking the spoon clean. The Demoman laughed heartily, dismissing the Scout's teasing with a wave of his hand.

 

“Ah! Youth and their bloody obscenities!” he declared in mocked indignation, but added with a sly grin:

“Show me more of that later.”

 

Scout saw him off in the same manner he had greeted him – raising his middle finger instead of his voice.

 

Once the door fell shut behind the Scotsman, Scout focused once more on the remains of his dessert. With the Demoman and the prospect of a bit fun that always started so cozily gone, sitting alone in the common room was boring.

 

Using the edge of the spoon, he drew whirls and circles by blending his two favorite flavors of ice cream. He tried another spoonful. Sweet, mild chocolate.

 

He certainly didn't plan to be a “good dog”. In a few minutes he would leave for the Demoman's room, hoping the fool wouldn't give the Medic a reason to spoil the seductive taste of his lips with one of his his stupid mixtures.

 

But as long as the air was thick with the scent of Black Vanilla, he would stay, sweetening his impatient tongue.

 

\- end -


End file.
